


Corridors

by Natassia74



Series: The Winter Falls Collection [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode 804, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natassia74/pseuds/Natassia74
Summary: Surely he had a plan that did not involve kissing her when he fled the great hall after her?What happens between Jaime leaving the great hall, slightly tipsy, and arriving at Brienne’s door, rather drunk?  A missing scene from the Last of the Starks.





	Corridors

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on leaks that suggested there may have been a scene where Jaime catches up with Brienne in the hallway before the Oathsex scene. The existence of such a scene would make sense, as Brienne seems to have been in her room for some time before Jaime knocks on the door. What exactly was he doing during that time?

"Brienne, wait!" 

She's already halfway down the corridor before he manages to stare down the wildling, dodge the revellers and escape the great hall. Too far for him to catch her in a dignified way, but not quite so far that she can pretend to ignore him. Particularly not when he's roaring her name that some crazed dragon. 

A few passerbys stop to stare, northerners frowning disapprovingly at a public display of emotion. No doubt some of them were just in the Great Hall to witness part one of this drama. _Two scenes in one night. __Subtle Lannister._

She keeps walking, back straight, determined. When he catches up to her he is breathing hard. D_amn her endlessly long legs._

"Brienne..." he says again, at her heals now, his voice softer against her ear. "Wait, please."

She pauses, and he sees her broad shoulders heave in an annoyed sigh before she turns to face him.

"Yes, _Ser_ Jaime." 

She forces the words out, like she's spitting out bad foot. Right. She's cross. Well, he is too now. Annoyed at the sudden wall she has thrust between them. She knows what the use of his name means to him.

"What's this '_Ser _Jaime' shit? It's _just_ Jaime. It's been _just Jaime_ for the past two days."

Her brilliant blue eyes flash with anger and hurt and indignation at his tone. "And look how that worked out for me."

He glares at her in consternation. She meets his glare and doubles it. _Touche. _Years ago, a lifetime it seems, he would have enjoyed this little duel. Now he just wants ... what? Peace? He thinks hard, but thinking is not as easy as it should be. He's already a little light-headed. _Exhaustion_, _not drink, _he tells himself firmly, although his sudden desire to grab her and kiss her suggests a boost of courage likely not borne entirely of sleep deprivation. 

Surely he had a plan that did not involve kissing her when he fled the great hall after her? 

An image of him pushing her against the wall, leaning up to plunder her mouth, flashes through his mind. _Or not._

_I wanted to talk. Yes, that was it, talk, _he tells himself firmly. 

So, why isn't he doing that? Why is he standing here staring at his quarry like a stunned Tully trout, mouth openning and closing, no words coming out?

_Are you going to say something clever?_ Tywin's voice is in his head. But he is not, absolutely not, going to think about his father now. Instead, heforages around his scrambled brain, searching for something witty to say, but comes up empty handed. Looming over him, Brienne does not look impressed. Something conciliatory then? He has never been very good at that. Brienne is glaring at him incredulously. 

Grasping at straws, it occurs to him that insulting a mutual enemy might be a good opening gambit. 

"My brother's an idiot..." he begins. 

She snorts. "That's hardly a matter of dispute."

_Well, no_, he concedes. _Not__ of late. _Still, there is a little mirth in her eyes now, and she isn't looking quite so hostile. He's gaining ground. _I should probably apologise too,_ he thinks. Good people like Brienne like apologies, and he's getting better at swallowing his pride and offering them. At least to her, if not the crazy dragon queen.

"And I'm sure he's sorry..." Jaime continues quickly, recklessly, only realising as he says it that, first, he's apologising for Tyrion and not himself, and secondly, he's wrong, because if there is one thing he is absolutely certain about, it is that Tyrion is _not _sorry, not at all, and that the bastard is probably right now gloating about his success in setting up his dimwitted bother. 

But suddenly, he needs Brienne to understand that Tyrion _would be sorry_, if he thought about it. Lannisters are not all bad. 

_"_Brienne, look, Tyrion's first marriage was ... painful, and you probably struck a nerve."

He sees her eyes soften for a moment. As hardened a warrior as she is, Brienne's got a soft heart underneath that armour. She doesn't like causing unnecessary pain, particularly when the subject is already hurt or broken.

_Like Tyrion. _

_And me. _

_And her, too, _he supposes.

“I didn’t know,” she says softy. "I'm sorry for that." But then she draws herself back up to her full height. "But you don't have any excuse. You enjoyed the joke too." 

_Had he? _Jaime frowns, trying to remember his part. Something about Brienne being a virgin being a statement, not a question? He tries to get his foggy mind to cooperate. If she thinks he was mocking her about it, she is very wrong. He’s actually ... what? What is he? _Impressed? Relieved? Maybe a little bit excited? _

Definitely not mocking her.

“I didn't. I ..." he begins.

But before he can explain, she fixes him with another glare. 

"Funny, isn't it? Big Brienne. ‘_Have you known many men? Women? Horses?’" _ Her words start off strong, defiant, but drop to a cracking whisper. It hurts her, to remember.

He did say those words to her, years ago, as they trekked across the Riverlands. He had wanted to hurt her back then, no point in denying it. He had wanted to wound her as punishment, payback, for her judgment and her righteousness and her "kingmaker" contempt. And he had clearly succeeded. 

_But we have moved on. _At least, he thought they had moved on. 

"Come on, that was years ago. And you were calling me all kinds of things and dragging me around on a chain..." he protests, and he can see her wince. _I don't want a duel_, he reminds himself. And he doesn't want to hurt her again, or drag up old memories. Far from it. 

He swallows. “I don’t think those things about you anymore, Brienne. I know you now. Anyway, I’m not in a position to judge. One woman in forty three years, and she's my sister.”

Something flashes across her face at that, an emotion he can’t quite read. Surely it couldn’t be jealousy? The usual reactions are amusement or disgust.

"We all make choices,” she says firmly, a little sadly, her eyes meeting his calmly. “Good night, Ser Jaime."

She turns abruptly and starts to walk away again.

"Wait, wait, wait..." he almost jumps to follow her, desperately trying to think of something to say. "Brienne!" 

This time he grabs her arm, and she stops, and turns again. There's hurt in her expression, frustration, maybe something else. He suspects he probably just looks confused. _I am fucking confused. _

A young couple, giggling, walks past them in the hallway, and they all turn briefly to look at each other. "''cuse me" the girl hiccups drunkenly, holding the man's arm. Her dress is nearly falling off her, and it must have taken quite the scene for her partner to turn his attention from her ample teats to Brienne and Jaime instead. Jaime recognises him as some northern git from Snow's army. The git gives him the once over, as if asking what a dishonorable fuck like him is doing bothering the Lady of Tarth in a dark hallway. Brienne just gives him a nod, as if to say _don't worry, I'm dealing with the vermin problem. _The git responds with a bow of his head in turn and continues down the corridor. 

_Probably they are going to fuck, _Jaime thinks, watching them. _Because that's what people do after battles, or big events, or celebrations. _Other people, not him. He goes to bed. Cersei was no camp follower, and back at Kings Landing either Robert got in first or it was too dangerous to try. He glances up at Brienne, and notices that she is watching the drunk couple leave as well. He wonders if it is longing he sees in her eyes, but the long distance stare could just as easily be exhaustion, or irritation. _Or concern that someone is having fun. _

After a moment, she turns back to look at him, and sighs deeply. 

"What do you want, _Jaime?"_ she emphasizes his name, the lack of a 'ser'. 

This question again. 

What does he want? Right now he wants to undo the last hour of his life and not play that stupid drinking game, although he'd settle for ten minutes, and use the time to throttle his brother. Longer term he has no idea. He couldn't answer his father five years ago and he can't answer Brienne now. In any case, this corridor it not really the right place for discussions about life goals. 

But then it occurs to him that maybe what she is actually asking is: _what do you want from me?_ His ego is telling him that's exactly what she's asking, and he should take advantage of it, but he's too drunk to trust his intuition. He doesn't know what he would say anyway. _I want your trust, your honour, your love? I want your lips on mine and your endless legs around my hips while to bury myself inside you?_

_I came here because of you and I want you and I need you and I dream about you and I really, really, really hope that you are a virgin, because then when I make love to you, you won't have anyone to compare me to and I won’t have to worry when I am so fucking desperate for you that I spill in three thrusts..._

How would she react if her told her _that_ truth? 

_Probably not well. _

He takes a breath, and looks into her eyes, but they are unreadable, except for the sizzling frustration. He can't quite work out if she's hurt, or defensive, or she just thinks he's a complete drunken fool and she wants him gone so she can get to bed.

So, for once, he is honest. "I don't know." 

Then, because he hasn’t got the courage to suggest they go to her rooms, and he doesn’t want either of them to be alone, and she’d probably hit her if he did try to kiss her, he says. "I want you to come back with me." 

Then she rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, sighs in a most put upon manner, and rather viciously, shrugs his hand off her arm. 

"I'm done with games,” she says.

And with that, she turns and heads down the corridor. Stunned, he simply watches her leave. 

"Fuck." 

He slams his left fist against the wall, causing the scabs on his knuckles to instantly break open, and setting off a bracing wave of pain through his sore ribs and chest. 

"Fucking, fuck, fuck."

He leans hopelessly against the wall, resting his head on the stonework. _What was that? _

_I have no idea what I am doing_, he realises morosely. _Bloody hell, I don't even know what I want to do._

Well, except Brienne. _I want to do Brienne_. _In every way possible. _

Only, it is becoming obvious, even to his alcohol seeped brain, that he has no idea how. Never once before has he contemplated straying from Cersei, so never has he courted another woman. Oh, he has attracted plenty. Often he can't get rid of them. Even being absolutely obnoxious has been known to fail to deter some. But what he has to do to attract this one, this woman who he actually interested in, is beyond him. 

And Brienne is no help. _Either she's not interested or she's as clueless as I am._

He is fairly sure it is the latter, but there is always that doubt. Drunk as he is, he’ll concede that his crippled, greying, time-worn self isn’t quite the prize he use to be. 

He bangs the back of his head against the wall again. _Fool. _

There's more giggling coming toward him, and he looks up and this time it's Pod. With two fucking girls, one on each fucking arm. The squire does a funny half halt when he sees Jaime, and gives him as look as if to say "what the hell happened?" and "why are you still here?" and "after what we did for you in there, how could you possibly be here alone?" He throws the boy an eye roll, as if to say “women, who can understand them?” But the look Pod gives him back makes it clear the boy thinks he is the one beyond comprehension.

_I'm getting cock mocked by Podrick fucking Payne_. _Could __this night get any more humiliating? _

He watches Payne disappears with his night's entertainment, and ponders what he should do. He could go back into the great hall, but the last thing he wants to do is let that fuckwit Tormund see return alone. The wildling would probably just take it as an invitation to take a shot himself. Fuck, maybe he is actually in with one. Who knew what Brienne wanted, anyway. _No more games apparently. _Unbidden, Jaime pictures the red-headed giant knocking on Brienne's chambers door, that stupid grin on his face, and Brienne letting him in. It makes him want to hit something. _Preferably Tormund._

He could go to bed, but that is currently the floor in Tyrion's chambers, and if his brother found him there it'd be worse than Podrick. His brother would say something snide. Jaime might then feel the need to murder him, and he is still working on getting over that impulse. 

He could just go and get drunk until he is so completely wasted he stops thinking about what how fucked his life is, and how much he’d like to fuck Brienne, and he passes out on the floor.

_Yes_, t_hat sounds like the best plan, _he thinks morosely_._

Unwilling to re-enter the great hall, or return to Tyrion’s chambers (unlikely to be any drink left there anyway), he decides the best place to try to put his plan into effect is the kitchens. There is usually something to drink there, and he's not fussed. Unfortunately, he's already had enough wine that it takes him a moment to recall exactly where he is, and where the kitchens actually are. He finds them by following the servants and by trial and error. They are quieter now, the food preparation finished, just servants running back and forth with drinks. They look dead on their feet, too, and a few carry bruises. A handful of children are asleep by the kitchen fire with the kitchen cats, their mothers presumably still on duty. _Whatever form that takes. _The elderly cook is asleep in a chair, the kitchen dog at her feet. 

Jaime looks around surreptitiously. A half a dozen decanters still sit on one of the wooden benches. He chooses one that is filled with something red and rich smelling, and goes to pick it up. For a moment, he envisages carrying the bottle and two cups to Brienne's chambers, knocking on the door, and hoping she lets him in. But what would he say if she opened it? There's a possibility, he supposes, that if he flashes her his most charming smile she'll grab him and haul him in, as he has occasionally seen camp followers do with his men. But that seems very unlikely and out of character for Brienne. Also, she’s so strong, that might actually hurt him.

He could try saying something witty when she opens the door. Or maybe just something friendly. _Fancy seeing you here? Care for a drink? _There's a good chance she'll tell him to fuck off. Or just slam the door in his face. 

But there’s a chance that she won’t. A chance worth taking, perhaps...

_Fuck it, I'm not drunk enough for this._

He pours himself a drink from one of the decanters, downs it. It's not great, but he's not drinking it for taste. _No, _he realises as he pours himself another. _I am drinking it for courage._

Well, there’s a realisation. He is drinking it for the courage to approach Brienne of Tarth. It’s like dressing for battle, only with alcohol to give him strength and guard his heart rather than armour. A small part of him is warning that this may not be a good idea, but he ignores it. When has he ever run from a fight?

_If you're drinking to build courage, _he tells himself firmly, _you should probably work out what it is you want to get the courage to do?_

His mind runs through the options. Knock on her door and suggest they talk? Offer to fight under her, or beside her, or with her forever and ever or until one of them (_please gods let it be m_e) is finally killed? Offer to take her maidenhead, show her what she’s been missing in the dark? Offer to marry her and give her children and fuck her every night and .... he shakes his head. He is getting too carried away with this. 

But he’s beginning to feel more confident. No matter what he's oh-so-clever siblings seem to think, he's not a total idiot. He actually rather fancies he's good with people, when he cares to try. _Men like to follow you_, his father had told him (or was that Tyrion_? _They really were too alike at times). And it’s true. He led his men without cruelty or indulgence, because he understood them. He can get under people’s skin, too, and irritate them, because he can read them. So, yes, he does have skill with people, and that skill tells him that Brienne has a lot of affection and even regard for him. She wouldn't have vouched for him if she didn't. She wouldn’t have risked her life for him again and again during the long night, occasionally even ignoring the broader strategy, if she didn’t. She wouldn’t have let his hand linger over hers on that wine cup, wouldn’t have spent half the night gazing into his eyes, flushing red, biting her lip, if she didn’t.

And it’s more than affection, he decides. Affection is what he feels for Aunt Genna. Brienne has barely left his side since he got here. She’s obviously considers him a good friend. She respects him, as he does her. She may well even love him. 

But does she want him?

Could she want him? The honourless, oathbreaking, reprobate, kingslayer.

_But she doesn’t see me like that, does she? She sees a man of honour, the only one who does._

She’s quite possibly delusional about him, but he is not selfless enough to tell her that. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. He desperately wants to prove her right. He wants to be the man she thinks he is. 

He pours and drinks again. He can feel a nice, comfortable warmness now. The alcohol has given him courage, even if it hasn’t quite washed away his doubts.

“I came here because of you." That is what he had wanted to say to her in that courtyard, but couldn't bring himself to. But she truely is why he is here, in the frigid north. Surrounded by dragons, undead, old gods, mystic trees, strange all-knowing cripples and snow and cold and miserable people, most of whom hate him. 

He is here because she told him to come.

He looks over at the remaining decanters, and grabs the one with the darkest, reddest wine, along with two cups. He tucks them under his arm, awkward with only one hand. Now he only has to find her chambers. He has no idea what he’ll say to her when he finds them, but if necessary he’ll improvise. He has always preferred that.

He feels a moment of uncertainty as he staggers into the hallway. A flash of green eyes in his mind, a sensual laugh, a reminder that he isn’t yet free. But he ignores it. _That_ is hundreds of miles away, in King’s Landing, and in his past. His present, his _now, _is here in Winterfell. 

His best chance for the future lies here too.

_Fuck loyalty, fuck self-doubt, fuck everyone else. _Brienne is his last, best, chance for a future that might actually be happy, a future that could be _good._ Because, Gods, he loves her and he wants her and he wants to show her just how much. He wants to give her everything (much, much too little) that he can.

And even if she rejects him, at least she’ll _know_. She’ll know that he finds her beautiful and desirable and absolutely fucking perfect. And that might just be enough.

_If you want her, go and get her._ That’s exactly what he’ll do.

As soon as his wine-addled brain remembers where to find her bloody chambers...


End file.
